Mansarde À Paris

When I said yes to the dress (remember that bullshit TV show?) I made sure Alin has friends in Paris. Haha! No, but I wonder how that could that have gone? Actually, that wasn’t that case, but now, that I have come to meet Paris, I think that should have been on my list. Right next to being kind and patient.

You must’ve gotten the hint by now. This post has something to do with Paris.

I met it when I was a little out of love with someone who was a bit of a robot. We were in Paris for a little too little and did a little too much for the one night we spent here. As you can see, mismatches all over the place. It’s no surprise I wasn’t really impressed. Noise, good food, noise, and eclairs.

Naturally, I wasn’t really motivated to revisit the city, especially because of all connections I made with the past. But you don’t need to tell me twice ‘let’s go’, cuz … you know … I will go.

There is little or nothing I can say about Paris that you don’t know; or that Wikipedia, Trip Advisor, Lonely Planet also failed to catch. So I will not write about that. I will write about the luck that god has placed on my head when she (yes, god is a she in my book; you don’t like it, get another book) made me check Alin’s Facebook profile and we got to talk. This man is not just kind and calm and sexy, he has friends in Paris. The kind of people who would let us stay in their apartment when they are not at home.

And that we did.

You must have gotten it by now. This post is not just about Paris.

It’s about un mansarde à Paris. Because yes, the apartment is a loft in Paris. Viewing a nice Place du something, where people are always in motion and cafes never close. Watching it from the sixth floor, I always have the feeling something is about to happen, but time hasn’t quite arrived yet.

So I go on looking, watching really until I realise my coffee has gotten cold and it’s already noon.

Being here I can actually feel more like a writer and less like a copywriter. It’s almost like every inch of this imperfect loft conspires to something, whispers something. I have no clue if this is the general vibe in Paris, of it’s just this particular corner, but it’s so dazzling. Is this real or is it just a dream? The owners of this place love vintage things, so maybe this is one of the reasons for the hidden-stories-feeling I am getting from this place.

One room still has its original textile wallpaper. It just makes me want to touch it all the time. Maybe you are more worldly than I am, but I haven’t seen such things other than in museums.

I could go on and on about the casual velvet cushions on the couch, beautiful nude sketches hanging on the walls, ivory/bone and wood coffee table on which my book rests as if that were the most normal table it ever rested on, but then again, this was never going to be an inventory of the things in this house. This post is about a place suspended in time, a place where dreaming and writing, basically creating things, makes sense.

Do you know when you visit memorial houses of wonder geniuses writers or composers or something, and you go on, casually letting your hand slide down a piece of furniture while wondering how could it have possibly been to live there when they did? Trying to picture a scene from their lives, when they composed, wrote, whatever? Did you let your imagination go on further? Did you maybe, for one second, pretend to be them? Seen yourself in that house? Well, this is pretty much how I feel in this loft.

So yes, it should have been on my list, next to kindness and other things that make for a good person.

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About Oana Petrache

I am a curious writer. If I’d have one wish, I’d want to have a key that opens all doors.
I like to lose myself in movies and travel … and shoes. I strongly believe that kids know it all and enjoy their company.